Jebel Ali's secret cave

A secret cave has been revealed in Jebel Ali, the "mountain" that overshadows Cell Block G. According to Hussain Al Badi, GM of the Emirates Centre of Heritage, History and Culture, the cave's floor is "littered with spent ammuntion":

Al Badi believes that the cave was built by warring tribes and may have been used by the British to store weapons during the Second World War. There are other holes in the side of the hill, but none as large and wide as the cave of Ali. "This can be a major tourist attraction if the authorities pay attention to this place," he says.

Jebel Ali, which translates to Mountain of Ali or High Mountain, is actually a sandy hill only a couple of hundred yards high. But it turns out to be an area with a fascinating and bloody past. According to historians, the assassin of Shaikh Theyab Bin Eisa, a tribal leader killed around 1750, fled here to hide. Dr Faleh Handhal, also from the Heritage Centre, says Jebel Ali also used to be an "area of contention" between Abu Dhabi and Dubai.

One can just imagine the hordes of bedouin warriors on camelback swarming onto the hillside with their curved swords gleaming in the sun; the harsh Arabic battle cries as the tribesmen fought to plant their flags on the summit.

Certainly a more appealing vision than today's beer-bellied expats trudging up the hill for a pint at Jebel Ali Cloob, and the satellite dishes that now look down upon us.

Sweaty September

September is the stickiest month, breeding damp patches out of limp clothes, mixing humidity and sweat, and generally making everyone's life a clammy nightmare. So it was no surprise to note that humidity reached 98% the other day.

Such was the sticky moistness of the evening that it forced a planned al fresco drink with a visiting associate into the glacially dry interior caverns of Jebel Ali Cloob. The associate, most definitely and categorically not a member of MI6, and having no intention whatsoever to photograph the villas of various arms dealers in neighbouring emirates, warmed up by downing a traditional Arabian feast of kebabs, hummous and grilled flesh.

The great thing about Arabic food is that it always suits every occasion. Every meal comes with cold mezze and salads, perfect for summer, as well as hot grilled meat and vegetables, ideal for the wintry confines of the Cloob. You can eat what you want, there is always plenty left over.

And while Arabic food can seem a bit plain - no chilli is generally used, nor exotic truffle oils or essence of peacock tears and so on - it is the only thing ones stomach craves after a day's fasting. Good, plain, basic nourishment. With Ramadan nigh, let's hope the Indian mutton ban ends soon, lest the UAE runs out of of tasty lamb to grill.

Going Cloobing

Perhaps the clientele of the Jebel Ali Recreation Cloob can best be summed up by a mention of the prominent sign in the female changing room: "DO NOT SPIT ON THE FLOOR" - in large bold capitals, among various other commandments in smaller type.

From the fat, smoking Geordie teenagers to their tattooed, hairy and raucus parents, the chilled pool in its setting of fresh green astroturf is an oasis of paleface vulgarity and non-class.

Fortunately - though not surprisingly, given their un-physical appearances - the majority of these horrors leave the gym free for a more bearable crowd of Lebanese musclemen, Internet and Media City people, and even the odd statuesque Emirati. It is a place of sweat, reasonable courtesy, and the ever-ghastly local radio.

By far the nicest people at the whole Cloob are the friendly subcontinental gentlemen serving food and drinks from the bar. A sad irony that these men - probably of eminently respectable castes in their home countries - are forced to wait hand and foot on the lowest scum of Blighty for a pittance that the average fat northern oil worker wouldn't spit on.

Unless he or she were in the changing room, of course.

Jebel Ali Club revisited

The Surveyor is visiting from Yemen, with a freshly smuggled harvest of stoneage flint arrowheads, but sadly no souvenirs from the gun souq.

To ease him gently back into Dubai's seven-star lifestyle, after the camel-spider infestations, boiled-mush Yemeni cookery and AC-free camping of energy company Halibut's desert Butlins, a half way house is needed. Too much gilt might explode his brain, so we stop for supper in that grim expat hole, Jebel Ali Fat Northern Working Men's club.

This time warp of a bar-come-social-club is rooted firmly in the very early eighties, a time when "prawn thermidor" or "chateaubriand" would be considered rare, exotic and the height of clarse. "BBQ" considered an exciting and special treat, not a rain-dampened lukewarm charcoal disappointment best left in the hand of antipodean cousins. When deejay cool directly related to gold sequinned jackets and mullets, rather than inversely.

Freezing, hideously furnished both in terms of decor and clientele, but thankfully the retro-themed menu is all very edible. And food, at the end of a long hard day at SHAC, or a long hard month in the Yemeni desert, is the only thing that matters.

Deluge in the desert

Outside my window - a shining lake surrounded by palm trees and desert flowers. All thanks to the wrath of the Heavens that hurled rain, wind and lightning at us for a violent hour earlier this evening.

As we left the building the first few raindrops began to splatter down on the dusty ground. One minute later arriving at at Jebel Ali Working Men's Club the sheets of rain and wind kept us prisoners in the car.

We waited twenty minutes. Despite being parked closely between two other sheltering vehicles, the Silver Shadow rocked violently about, battered by the desert tempest.

Hunger won over in the end, and we braved the outside. Unfortunately, despite repeated assurances that oil-rich sheikhs would not be plentiful on the ground in Jebel Ali Club, spinster schoolmarm Margery was done up like a dog's dinner, if not a camel's feast. But the second we stepped out of the car we were drenched. Hair soaking, clothes wet through as though we had just jumped in a swimming pool (wetter even than stepping under a shower, due to the force of the wind blowing solid sheets of water from every angle).

Margery managed to make her dramatic entrance - but rather as a bedraggled entrant to the Gulf's first wet t-shirt contest than a glamorous femme fatale. Nonetheless adding to the grotty-1980s-midland theme of the Club.

Fisherman's Basket

A severely disturbing experience in both time travel and teleportation: one second hurtling down Sheikh Zayed through the desert, the next instant transported to a 1980s style suburb of west Birmingham with a traditional-style working men's club, faded in its dingy glory. Jebel Ali "village", and Jebel Ali club.

Here the walls are lurid with posters of dated pub performers, the clientele sport broad northern moustaches and even broader accents, the food includes prawn and grapefruit cocktail and Fisherman's Basket, and - call the mullahs! - Friday's special is honey roast ham or pork.

The only clue that this is a weird, alien simulation of 1980s "British life" is the staff: all filipinos (robots?), rather than fat Corrie Street-esque barmaids and shifty-eyed landlords.